


Guess he wants to play (a love game)

by diamondjacket



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, Boy Squad, Evakteket Challenge, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Pining, Sports, Tennis, allusions to bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 08:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12077061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondjacket/pseuds/diamondjacket
Summary: He’s reverted to his previous task of lacing up his shoes when Even walks through the locker room door, practice bag slung over his shoulder and a heartbreakingly weary look on his face. By all accounts, he looks like shit.Doesn’t stop Isak from wanting to climb him like a fucking oak tree, unfortunately.Or: A professional tennis AU.





	Guess he wants to play (a love game)

**Author's Note:**

> So this was meant to be a oneshot, but unfortunately vacation (and more recently, Hurricane Irma and subsequent power outages) got in the way. But I wanted to try to post something by the actual deadline, so I'm splitting this into two parts! 
> 
> This is for [Kit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kittpurrson) and [Immy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imminentinertia)'s Evakteket Challenge--thanks for putting together such an awesome challenge, my friends! My prompts were: friends to lovers, celebrity/sports/careers + different city (I couldn't choose between Mahdi and Magnus for question #2, so I just went with both!), and summer. I've been dying to write a tennis AU and my boy Rafa Nadal just won the US Open, so I was like, TENNIS EVAK IN NYC. Let's do this.
> 
> Tags may be added for part 2, and the rating _might_ go up. I promise you don't need to know a ton about tennis to read this! But of course, let me know if something is confusing. :)

**_Now_ **

“You’ve been away from the game for six months. How are you feeling coming into today?”

On the screen, Even’s crinkled, smiling face drops into something blank and inscrutable. Isak’s concerned about Even, he really is, but that does nothing to stop his mind from screaming _PRETTY!_ before he can tell it to shut the fuck up.

If it was possible to kick one’s own brain in the balls, Isak’s pretty sure his would be sterile by now.

“I’m feeling good,” Even says in admirably competent English, perfectly cordial but lacking his usual mid-interview sparkle. Anyone who didn’t know him as well—or watch him as closely ( _shut up_ )—as Isak does probably wouldn’t notice the difference. “I’m excited to be back in New York.”

“Six months is a long time,” John McEnroe says—and yeah, _thanks for that killer commentary, John,_ Isak thinks petulantly. And, okay, maybe that’s also because Isak has never had enough success to land an interview with him in the first place, but pssh. Technicalities.

Even frowns, just enough for Isak to catch it on the tiny locker room television screen. “It is,” Even concedes. “But I have no expectations. I’m just going to give it my all and see what happens.” He shoots John a little grin—a glimmer of his younger self peeking through the cracks. “No stress.”

It’s not really what you’re supposed to say—not when almost every other dude vying for the title is out there puffing his chest out and talking up his game and saying shit like _this is all I’ve ever wanted, I’m hungry for it, nobody wants it more than me._ But Even’s never been like those guys.

It’s one of the reasons Isak respects him so much.

One of many.

The interview wraps up with a big (if dim-eyed) smile from Even and a mentorly clap on the back from John, and ESPN cuts back to Eva’s match. She’s winning handily, but it _is_ the first round and she’s playing a virtual unknown Isak’s never even heard of before, so he’d be more surprised if she wasn’t.

He’s reverted to his previous task of lacing up his shoes when Even walks through the locker room door, practice bag slung over his shoulder and a heartbreakingly weary look on his face. By all accounts, he looks like shit.

Doesn’t stop Isak from wanting to climb him like a fucking oak tree, unfortunately.

It also doesn’t help the situation in Isak’s brain—or in his pants—when Even catches sight of Isak sitting on the bench and his eyes light up.

It makes no difference how many times Even smiles at him or talks to him or _breathes_ in his general direction, Isak’s stomach will always flop around like a fish out of water. Jonas has pointedly called him a “blushing schoolgirl” during many a training session, and it would be insulting if it wasn’t so fucking true.

Isak still launches balls at Jonas’s head every time he says it, though. That shit’s just fun.

“Hi, Isak,” Even says as he approaches, and Isak barely suppresses a full-body shiver at the private, if entirely mundane greeting.

He gulps. “Hi, Even.” Extremely dapper and smooth, compared to Isak’s usual fumbling attempts at acting casual. “Good interview?”

As if Isak hadn’t immediately dropped everything he was doing the second Even’s handsome face appeared on screen. As if he hadn’t spent precious seconds he needed to practice for his own tournament opener hanging onto Even’s every word.

Even just shrugs. “No complaints,” he says. Which is not particularly surprising, because Even has never been much of a complainer—persistent negativity resides more in Isak’s wheelhouse. It’s probably why Even already has two Grand Slam titles to his name, while Isak just cracked the top 20 for the first time in his life two weeks ago.

Isak catches himself staring at Even’s large, capable hands adjusting the strap on his bag for a little too long—he just wants them on his body, okay? Just a little bit. Over the clothes is fine, he’s not greedy.

“Excited for your match?” he asks, if only to cover the dirty thoughts his mind just conjured that are more than likely showing on his face. It’s an inane question—no one feels _excited_ this close to match time. In the weeks leading up to it? Sure. During? Absolutely. But Even’s probably ass-deep in nerves right now, same as Isak. Same as every single person in the draw.

Even grins at him, glancing down at his shoes and back up to Isak.

“That depends,” he says, stepping closer. There’s still a reasonable distance between them, but Isak feels Even’s proximity like they’re chest-to-chest. “Will you be watching?”

Isak’s first match is tomorrow and he still has a _lot_ to do to prep for it, not to mention dinner with Jonas and the team to “go over the game plan” (which they both know will ultimately amount to “just throw everything you have at the guy and hope for the best”)...but he knows he’ll find a way to make time for Even’s match.

He’s missed him too much over these past six months not to.

“Yeah, I think so,” he says, because it sounds less pathetic. “I mean, think I should be able to catch most of it.”

The difference between _most of it_ and _every single second plus the post-match on-court interview_ is negligible, really, when you think about it.

Even’s smile shrinks into something small and pleased, but it still feels like...more. More intimate, maybe.

“Good,” he says, voice pitched low. Was it always so hot in this locker room? Isak will have to have a few words with the staff. “Then I’m excited.”

Certain parts of Isak are _excited,_ too, now. He really wishes Even had caught him before he slipped on his compression shorts, because even though they’re keeping things _in line,_ per se, it’s not exactly comfortable. He’s just glad tennis players don’t have to wear jockstraps, for fuck’s sake.

Isak musters a smile, because thinking about erections and jockstraps in Even’s presence is just about the least advisable thing he can fathom.

“Call me after?” he asks, even though he told himself a million times leading up to New York that he wasn’t going to because he needs to learn to _play it cool, damn it._

It’s a habit they got into at the end of last year, calling each other after matches. Sometimes they would discuss what happened, sometimes they’d avoid talking shop and shoot the shit about anything and everything else. But win or lose, Isak always enjoyed himself...always hung up the phone feeling lighter and more fulfilled than when he picked up.

But they haven’t talked for six months. Not since Even started dropping out of tournaments, out of the blue, with no viable explanation beyond a vaguely-worded public statement citing “health reasons.”

But Even’s face gets even softer, if that’s possible, and he lifts a hand to Isak’s shoulder.

“Can’t wait,” he says quietly, and then he backs up and walks off towards the showers, shooting Isak a lingering, soul-ravaging glance as he goes.

_Fuck._

Isak’s heart is already pounding, and he hasn’t done a lick of exercise since he arrived at the practice courts.

 _Get it together, fuckhead,_ he chastises himself, shaking his head. _You have a match to win._

 

**_Then_ **

Isak first meets Even Bech Næsheim when he’s fourteen years old, and scared shitless.

He’s at a tennis academy. In _Sweden._ Because he thinks he’s gonna...what? Become a professional tennis player? Win tournaments? Win _Grand Slams?_

What on Earth had his delusional ass been smoking?

He has no one to blame but himself. His father had taken him to a sporting goods store when he was a kid, kneeled down to Isak’s level with a condescending smirk, and told him to _pick one._ And Isak, offering perhaps the biggest hint of the resentful smartass he’d grow up to be, bypassed all the footballs and downhill skis and ice skates...and picked up a racket. It may have been a spite-driven move, but his tiny little lizard brain also _really_ liked the idea of getting to smash things.

His father had frowned, clearly realizing that he was trapped between his promise to let his son—who he was determined to mold into a top-notch athlete—pursue whichever sport he wanted, and the fact that tennis wasn’t exactly the _traditional_ choice he had in mind for him.

But he had sighed and pulled out his bank card, and Isak had grinned in vicious triumph.

(The joke’s on Isak, though, because to this day, his dad hasn’t been to a single one of his matches.)

He had no intention of actually playing, for real, but as it turned out...Isak really liked tennis. He kind of _loved_ it, in fact. And weirdly enough, despite the fact that his dad had given up on getting him interested in something else and his mom was dealing with too many of her own problems to help him, Isak got kind of... _good_ at it. So good, that his instructors at the tennis center started talking about _potential_ and _natural ability_ and _cultivating his talent._

And then they had sat him and his parents down and told them plainly that if Isak was going to do this, really do this, he had to leave the country. Had to go somewhere with the people and the facilities and the resources to maximize his chances at making it.

It was a somewhat terrifying prospect for a fourteen-year-old, and his first and second instincts had been to laugh in their faces and cower pitifully behind his mother, respectively. But the more he thought about it...the more he realized that he didn’t really have much tying him down at home, anyway. His parents couldn’t be considered a healthy support system by anyone’s standards, and he didn’t have many close friends, either, usually too caught up at the tennis center to socialize much with his peers.

And if his father was willing to bankroll him while he attempted to make something of himself...what did he have to lose, really?

The answer was, of course, a lot. But teenagers aren’t really known for their critical thinking and risk management skills.

So here he is, on his first day in this strange new place far from home, eyes darting around at all the older, more experienced, _better_ players warming up and having a mild panic attack, wondering if it’s still too late to hop on the next flight back to Oslo and forget this whole thing ever happened.

He’s just about to turn tail and make a run for it when someone clears their throat behind him, and Isak spins around.

The first word that pops into his mind is _tall._

At sixteen, Even’s height is already considerable, his shoulders broad, his neck long and body lithe. He’s already so, so beautiful.

Later, Isak will come to understand that he was too young and too closeted to acknowledge his attraction at the time. But there’s no doubt that he feels a pull, a heart-flipping tug in his gut at the sight of him, even if he doesn’t fully comprehend what it means.

“Hi,” the boy says cheerily, smiling a little too wide to be introducing himself to a total stranger. “I’m Even.” He sticks his hand out.

 _Even._ Isak has already heard rumors, whispers about some dude called _Even._ About how good he is—too good for the academy, they say. Too good to stick around here for long.

Feeling this boy’s strong grip as they shake hands, Isak knows instantly that this Even and the Even everyone talks about are one and the same.

“I’m Isak,” he replies, blushing hotly without really understanding why.

Even smile grows even wider somehow, his oversized tennis polo falling to the side and exposing an appealing patch of collarbone that Isak stares at for far too long.

“Hi, Isak,” Even says. A soft-looking lock of hair manages to fall into his eyes, despite the yellow bandana attempting to hold it away from his face.

Looking back, Isak’s brain had no doubt been screaming _GAY. GAAAAY. YOU ARE VERY, VERY GAY._ But in the moment, Isak only feels an uncomfortable churning inside, a full-body flush that makes his palms sweat and knees weak.

“You want to warm up with me?” Even asks, eyes hopeful.

And even though he should be intimidated, even though Even should be practicing with someone closer to his far superior skill level...Isak does.

He smiles more that morning than the past hundred mornings combined.

 

###

 

Three weeks later, Even is gone. Off to train under a coaching legend in Germany, they say. The next inevitable milestone on his journey to the pros has been achieved, the prophecy fulfilled. Isak starts warming up with a guy named Jonas after that.

It’s the first time Even leaves him to pursue bigger and better things.

It’s not the last.

 

**_Now_ **

_“Ugh,”_ Magnus groans into his lukewarm beer, something wheaty and Belgian and not at all appealing to Isak’s taste. But this Manhattan bar didn’t have Tuborg, so sacrifices must be made in the name of grieving.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” Jonas says, patting him on the back in a comforting gesture that Magnus is too drunk to fully appreciate.

On Isak’s right, Mahdi scoffs. “No, we won’t,” he says, and only Mahdi could make such a depressing proclamation sound oddly positive.

“We were just _so close,"_ Magnus whines, and...yeah, they really were. Nothing like losing 16-14 in a final set tiebreak to really put things in perspective.

Or make you want to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Mahdi sighs, then, like he’s finally feeling some of the weight of their defeat. “It was always gonna be a longshot,” he concedes, taking a long, contemplative swig of his beer.

Mahdi and Magnus are Norway’s top doubles team—which isn’t saying much, really, since Norway doesn’t produce a lot of tennis players, period. Aside from Even, who has reached a level of superstardom the four of them can only fantasize about in their weaker moments, the bulk of their homeland’s men’s tennis contingent is currently sitting around the table, drinking their cares away.

Well, Isak isn’t. Magically, miraculously, he’s still in the mix, getting ready for his Round of 16 match the following day. Jonas is there mainly to commiserate with Mahdi and Magnus over their quarterfinal loss, but also to play the role of Disciplined Enforcer in case Isak feels reckless enough to drink on the eve of one of the biggest matches of his life.

Not that Jonas has anything to worry about on that front, but _honestly._ He’s one to talk, considering a major reason he left the game was its stringent anti-marijuana regulations. He also wasn’t really passionate about tennis from the start...but the pot thing. That was big.

He’s now the closest Isak has to a “coach.” Isak uses the mental quotation marks because Jonas is really more of a traveling best friend and one-man moral support network...which is almost as good as a coach, really. Except for, you know...the authority and the expertise and all that crap.

 _Fuck,_ Isak thinks, not for the first time. But he’s rather good-natured about it tonight.

“How are you feeling, Isak?” Magnus asks, pulling his head up from where he had been banging it repeatedly against the table. They all have different ways of coping with disappointment, and Magnus’s tend to err on the side of mild, self-inflicted violence. It was concerning the first few times, but they’re all pretty used to it now.

Isak shrugs. “Fine,” he says, picking at the label on his sparkling water. It wouldn’t be his first choice, but in the absence of beer, it’s better than the lemon-lime Gatorade he’s forced to mainline on the regular. “Second round was a five-setter, but the last couple have been easier, so I’m not too wiped.”

“Think you can pull it off?” Mahdi asks, and bless him, he sounds genuinely excited at the prospect of someone in their little group actually succeeding, even in the face of his own loss. It’s nice—with Even sweeping back into the sport in dramatic fashion and dominating early on, Isak’s quiet achievement has received little attention back home, and even less here in New York. It’s cool to know people who give a fuck, sometimes.

Isak sighs. “I don’t know,” he says, honest in a way he only allows himself to be with his friends...or with Even, not so long ago.

Any stronger optimism seems stupid, anyway. His opponent is a top five player with a killer return—and a Canadian to boot, so he’ll probably bring out a considerable showing of Canadian fans willing to make the relatively short trip to Queens. Isak’s just...Isak.

Even if he _has_ been playing rather well, lately.

Jonas slaps him on the back. “Of course he can pull it off,” he declares, for which Isak is equally embarrassed and grateful. “He has to impress his boyfriend, after all.”

Did Isak say he was grateful? Scratch that. Try _homicidal._

He opens his mouth to protest, but it’s too late, Magnus and Mahdi are both sporting evil grins, sensing and feeding off of Isak’s obvious discomfort.

“What are you going to do about Even, then?” Magnus asks with near-unbridled glee. He seems positively thrilled to talk about something other than his own misfortune, for a change.

Isak scowls at the whole traitorous lot of them. “What do you mean, what am I going to do?” he snipes, rolling his eyes. “There’s nothing _to_ do.”

“It’s pathetic, having a crush this long and not doing anything about it,” Mahdi chimes in sagely, completely ignoring him.

“Gee, thanks.”

Jonas waves the waiter over to order them another round—everyone but Isak, anyway—and leans in. “I honestly don’t know what you’re waiting for,” he says, voice incredulous. “We were there during the Davis Cup semis last year, okay? The dude is very obviously into you, and you’re even more obviously into him.”

That brings a blush to Isak’s face—which is compounded by the arrival of their waiter—and he hopes it isn’t visible in the bar’s dim lighting. He really doesn’t need to be reminded about all the Davis Cup stuff. Historically, it’s not a memory he’s capable of thinking about rationally.

He waits for the waiter to take their order and leave before he hisses, “He has a girlfriend.” It’s not the first time he’s been forced to make that point, but it still feels like a punch to the gut to say it. It’s bad enough he had to see Sonja every time he watched one of Even’s matches, her model good looks too enticing for the camera not to pan to her sitting primly in the front row of Even’s player’s box at every available opportunity.

Magnus is draining the final dregs of his current beer, and at Isak’s words, he nearly chokes.

“They broke up!” he exclaims, coughing a little and wiping foam off his chin.

And, well...this is news to Isak. And Mahdi and Jonas, apparently, because their eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Really?” Mahdi asks. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, it’s all over the blogs,” Magnus explains, and all three of them roll their eyes simultaneously. Ever since he saw his own name mentioned in an article and didn’t shut up about it for a straight week, they’ve telling him to stop reading that trash--for their own sanity, more than anything. “Also in the press back home—didn’t you see any of it?”

Tennis isn’t exactly their national sport, but Even still generates a tremendous amount of interest, given his unprecedented success and his _own_ model good looks. It’s not as wild as it is in other countries, but their tabloids do tend to keep tabs on his comings and goings.

Not to mention his relationship status.

Isak tries to ignore all that, mostly so he doesn’t go insane with jealousy. Whether he’s jealous of Even’s fame or Sonja’s... _whatever_...is another matter entirely.

“She’s dating some musician now, apparently,” Magnus continues, but Isak couldn’t give less of a fuck who she’s seeing now—only that it isn’t Even, anymore. What kind of fucking idiot would walk away from Even, anyway? Clearly, she was never good enough for him in the first place.

Isak’s startled out of his internal raging by his phone, which dings with an incoming text.

Speak of the devil.

 **From Even:** _wish me luck?_

Right. Because Even’s own Round of 16 match—his prime time night match on Arthur Ashe, no less—is due to start in just a few minutes. Sure enough, when Isak glances up at one of the bar’s many televisions, they’re playing footage from Even’s previous victory and commentators are blathering on, analyzing his chances.

His pleasure at Even’s text must show on his face, because Jonas leans over and cranes his neck to see what has Isak all flustered. _Nosy asshole._

“What is it?” he asks, expression growing conspiratorial. “Is it Even?”

“Ooooh,” Magnus crows, and Mahdi quickly plucks Isak’s phone out of his hand like some kind of fucking ninja, Jesus Christ. He _is_ rather speedy on court, so Isak should probably have seen it coming.

A quick glance at the screen has Mahdi _awww_ ’ing in absolutely _mortifying_ fashion.

“Shut up,” Isak whines, only managing to snag his phone back when all three of them have had a chance to read Even’s message and coo at it like morons.

 _God,_ his friends suck.

“Text him back!” Magnus says excitedly, electing to chug his next beer the second the waiter places it in front of him. “What should he say?” he asks the group, like Isak isn’t even there.

“How about _good luck?_ ” Isak offers, but they ignore him. _Typical._

Mahdi smirks. “Maybe you should offer him sexual favors if he wins,” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows. Isak reaches over and smacks his arm, even though he’s flushing at the mere thought of doing anything _sexual_ with Even.

It’s not like he hasn’t had those thoughts before. Or, you know, often. While in bed.

Jonas sniggers—he knows Isak well enough by now to know exactly what he’s thinking about. “Don’t do that,” he says. “But you could say something like _what do I get if you win?_ You know, something kinda sexy, but not _too_ sexy.”

Could Isak really text something so... _flirty_ to Even? He doesn’t think Even would mind, really—he’s a pretty flirty guy, himself, even though Isak’s sure he doesn’t mean to be half the time—but it still makes Isak’s cheeks burn hotter to consider it.

Finally, he shakes his head. Their friendship is too delicate right now to fuck with it like that. “I’m just going to text him _good luck_ like a normal person, okay? Sorry to disappoint.”

Magnus pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“At _least_ add a heart or something,” Jonas pleads. “C’mon. He’s about to play on the biggest stage in our fucking sport. You gotta throw the guy a bone.”

Isak thinks he hears Mahdi mutter “yeah, if you’re not gonna actually _bone_ him,” and Magnus giggle in response, but he pointedly ignores it.

He gulps. “Fine.”

 **To Even:** _good luck <3_

He takes a deep, fortifying breath, and hits ‘send.’

“There,” he says, locking his phone and tossing it on the table. “Sent.”

All his friends stare at it in anticipation like it holds the key to the universe in its depths, but Isak doesn’t really expect Even to reply. The dude’s busy, after all, and Isak’s text wasn’t exactly inspiring.

 _Oh God._ What if the heart is weird? What if Even is creeped out? What if he never wants to talk to Isak again after this? What if—

Isak’s phone dings.

With some trepidation—and blocking out the eager faces of his friends—he peers at the screen.

 **From Even:** _< 3_

 

**_Then_ **

Isak and Even don’t overlap much on the juniors circuit, mostly because Even isn’t on it for long. Given his awe-inspiring talent that has everyone tittering everywhere he goes—and rightfully so—his participation in shitty juniors tournaments seems like more of a formality than anything else. A quick, perfunctory layover en route to the pros.

That said, they play each other a few times.

In their first match—on a blisteringly hot hard court in Sydney about a month into Isak’s tenure as a junior player—he gets fucking _destroyed._ Just a straight-up, all-out ass whooping of historic proportions, almost comical to think about in retrospect. Even’s serve is monstrous in the most devastating way, and even with his gangly limbs, he moves with rhythm and grace that Isak can only dream of possessing at age fifteen.

He gives Isak a rueful smile and a warm handshake when they meet at net, and he actually looks happy to see him. Isak wasn’t even sure that Even would remember him, let alone give him such a friendly reception. It makes him feel warm all over, and it has nothing to do with the oppressive summer sun.

Their second match is a little more contentious—Isak’s gained some experience, and maybe even a little more confidence. Even still beats him in straight sets, but Isak puts up a fight, and the points are long and arduous and exhilarating.

But Even’s just too good.

They approach each other when it’s over, sweaty and tired under low-hanging clouds in Montreal, and Even’s smile is happy, relieved—he’s an elite athlete, even this early in his career, and of course, he badly wanted to win—but he looks contrite. He knows this one’s going to sting later, for Isak. Going to eat at him for a while.

His eyes are warm...so, so warm, and so blue. So blue, the clouds don’t even fucking matter. The sky is right here on court with Isak.

The embrace Even pulls him into is brief, but the contact seeps into Isak’s skin like a balm.

“Good match,” he murmurs into Isak’s hair as he leans in, voice low but loud enough to be heard over the scattered applause. Isak carries the feeling of Even’s breath against him for months afterward.

Their final match as juniors happens on an unkempt clay court in Switzerland. No one knew it at the time (except Even, perhaps), but it would be Even’s last match before he turned pro—at age seventeen, a full year earlier than most. Isak wouldn’t join him for yet another year.

The slow, physical nature of clay court tennis has always been where Isak thrives, where his bold, scrappy style of play is rewarded. He doesn’t have a serve that makes people gasp, and he’s too tall to be the fastest guy on court. But he has _something_ —a grit, a determination, a willingness to do whatever it takes, damn the consequences.

He doesn’t know that yet. Not until now, anyway.

The match may have taken hours or mere seconds, for all Isak remembers. Looking back, he can’t conjure up a single point they played—just the feeling of pushing himself to the limit, of offering up everything he has to give. Of moves and countermoves, fighting to take Even’s electrifying energy and throw it back at him twofold.

Of feeling more and more powerful as the match goes on, instead of less.

Of having _fun._

They play all three sets to tiebreaks—a rare thing, even for the pros—and somehow, before he can even grasp that they’ve reached match point...he’s won.

It’s a fluke, a fucking _fluke,_ for someone like Isak to beat a star like Even.

But he did. He _won._

He’s still dumbfounded when they meet at net, slowly, inevitably, drawn together like magnets. He doesn’t know how Even will react to such a soul-crushing loss, even if Even _is_ far too good for the juniors circuit. Isak’s elated to have won, but for some reason, the idea that Even could somehow resent him for something, _anything,_ is making him queasy.

But Even holds his arms open, grin so wide and bright, he might as well have won the trophy himself.

Isak thinks: _Wow._

He’s so happy, he doesn’t think twice before stepping into the circle of Even’s embrace and hugging him close, feeling Even’s strong arms close around his back and Even’s scent all around him. They’re drenched in sweat and covered in clay, but Isak can’t give two fucks, in this moment.

All that matters is this.

He can hear Even’s cheerful laughter in his ear, feels it vibrate against his skin when Even says, “Congratulations, Isak,” soft and awed and just for him.

Isak falls for him, then and there. There’s no stopping it.

He didn’t know what it meant to love another guy, back then. Couldn’t comprehend what it meant for him, how it would continue to shape his life in ways big and small.

But he knew he was gone.

He still is.

 

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Just for reference, Davis Cup is a country-based team competition that takes place throughout the year, culminating in the final towards the end of the season. Kind of like the World Cup, but every year, and super spread out with events in between rounds. In this AU, Even, Isak, and the Mahdi/Magnus doubles partnership comprise Norway's Davis Cup team. But this will factor more in part 2! :)
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://diamondjacket.tumblr.com).


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